Then, casting his eyes up, Roger saw the figure of his rival—apparently an Indian, though dressed in tanned buckskin after the manner of white hunters, and gripping a bow in his left hand.
The other was staring hard at the boy, as though astounded to find himself face to face with a young paleface, never before known in this particular section.
And there they stood, each with a foot advanced, and a look of defiance on their faces, as though ready to dispute title to the possession of the dead elk.
CHAPTER XI
“ALL, OR NONE!”
“Game mine!”
When the dark-faced man in the fringed buckskin said these two words in an angry tone, Roger felt something of a shock. He looked closer, and realized that possibly the other hunter might not be an Indian after all, but one of those half-breeds who sometimes made their homes with the tribes, and again sought the company of the whites, either English or French.
“Oh! is that so?” the boy answered back, in a satirical tone; “well, just prove it to me then, and I’ll throw up my claim.”
He kept his arrow fitted to the bowstring all the time, and aimed directly toward the breast of the other. Should the necessity have arisen he could have sped the shaft like lightning, even at such close range, for it only requires one quick movement of the arm to do this.